


Kickin' Up Dust

by PoorWendy



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-07 05:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18404087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoorWendy/pseuds/PoorWendy
Summary: A collection of the Mag7 drabbles for the Writin' Dirty April fest on tumblr. Mostly Faraday/Vasquez, some more Gen. None of the drabbles are related or part of the same narrative or verse besides those specified. Keep an eye on the rating in case I add smut in later chapters.**4-12-19 edit: Note that I upped the rating to M for my own peace of mind after considering some of the themes and ideas addressed in a couple of these chapters.****4-18-19 edit: Upped the rating to E, but I'll make a note specifically in the summary of any chapter that contains explicit content.**





	1. Unanswered Prayers

“It strikes me that the people in this town are doin’ an awful lot of prayin’,” Faraday points out late in the evening. “A lot of good it’ll do ‘em.”

Horne sighs, audibly disappointed. Faraday really ought to know better than to get into this again with him. It’s clear enough they’re going to disagree.

“Seems to me,” Horne begins, carefully, after a minute, “the Lord has seen fit to answer them.”

Faraday takes a drag off his cigarillo. “How d’ya figure?” he asks lazily, preemptively uninterested in whatever explanation Horne will have.

“He’s brought the seven of us here, hasn’t He?” Horne says. “A town full of people, facing an unjust force. A cruel fate. A town that appealed to Him. And He brought us to them.”

Faraday rolls his eyes before he can stop himself, but by some stroke of luck, Horne doesn’t catch it. “I don’t remember it that way,” he says, letting a mouthful of smoke with the words. “Way I recall, was Mrs. Cullen who brought us to them.”

Horne smiles, looks off into the distance so serenely it could just make Faraday sick. “Who do you suppose sent her?” he asks. “We’re all servants, after all. He works through us.”

Faraday shakes his head, inhales another long drag of smoke, needing something to busy his mouth, keep it from spitting out what it wants to.

_ Horseshit, _ it wants to say.  _ Some servants, _ it’d like to scoff. A town full of people, facing an unjust force and a cruel fate and a tyrannous robber baron, and what did any of them do? Cower and pray.

_ Unholy, _ Faraday’s mouth would like to call such a claim, that Emma was sent by anyone besides her own self. She could well be the bravest of the lot of them. That anybody at all, and especially a woman, had gone out to assemble any kind of front line, any means of justice or revenge in the face of a force so unjust and a fate so cruel is a pure and very human ambition. It doesn’t set right in Faraday’s head to hear her written off as some player in some grand design by some fellow who never bothers to show up, who lets all this injustice happen in the first place.

It’d all be lost on Horne. The old man would surely have some maddeningly calm response to each and every point his mouth might raise.

He lets a long stream of smoke pour from his mouth before he finally mutters, “If you say so,” fixes his hat on his head, and turns to make his way back to town.


	2. Growing Old

It never really seemed like it was in the cards for him. Few things in life were certain, that much Faraday felt quite confident about. Who knows what it was like out on the coast, out in the cities… But the way Faraday grew up made it pretty clear that anything you have one day might be gone the next. Anybody you thought you might be able to count on might quickly sell you out for the right price.

Faraday hasn’t known very many old folks, to be perfectly honest. His mama’s parents were gone long before he was born. He never met his daddy or anybody his daddy ever knew, with the sole exception of his mama, much less anyone the man might’ve called family.

Most of the men he’d known growing up were lost in the war, or else came home well on their way to dying. Nobody fared particularly well when the fevers started, the war not even half-over, its widows and wounded survivors alike succumbed rapidly to consumption. Once it took his mama, he didn’t bother hanging around to see it take anybody else.

Since then, Rose Creek was the longest he’d stayed put in any place. And nobody was as surprised as he was when, despite his best and most reckless efforts, he woke properly a week after the battle, the holes he’d been full of now sewn-up, the skin that’d burnt now bandaged.

It was already a miracle, if you asked him, and if he believed in that sort of thing, that he’d lived even that long. That he hadn’t been put down by some fella he’d beaten at cards, and there had been quite a few of them who’d tried—plenty who were more than a hair cleverer than the so-called “Two-Gun Kid.” It had seemed to him, when he’d ridden out heroically (or stupidly, depending on your perspective) to face the Devil’s Breath, he was on borrowed time already, and he couldn’t rightly imagine some better opportunity to risk his neck in such a profound and decisive manner presenting itself anywhere down the line.

It wasn’t an idea Faraday had spent much time entertaining. The odds were against it, and he’d never really had anything precious enough to want to savor for as long it would take to do it, to grow old. And if he had ever wondered, had ever taken the time to imagine something like that, something worth savoring, something worth holding on to, something that would make him second-guess the next time he felt a wild fire in him urging him heedlessly toward the grave… If ever he’d pictured what something like that might be, it wasn’t some long-and-lean vaquero, wasn’t some wanted man who could outdraw him. It wasn’t Vasquez.

But the thing is, when Faraday woke, properly, aching and disbelieving, it  _ was _ . It was Vasquez, snoring at his bedside, who made him suddenly and unspeakably grateful he _ had  _ woken up. It was Vasquez who had him hoping, for the very first time, he might be lucky enough to wake up ten-thousand more times, ‘til he was sick of the sight of him. Faraday knew it would take at least that long.


	3. Without You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a sort of continuation of/partner to the previous chapter, Growing Old, from Vasquez's POV

With each day that goes by without Faraday waking, Vasquez becomes more furious with himself. By no right should he still be in Rose Creek.

Regardless of what they did, regardless of all they sacrificed and barely survived, there’s still a bounty hanging over him, and staying in one place for as long as he has is still completely misguided.

It’s not the first foolish action he’s deliberately and knowingly taken lately. He wasted ammo and entirely neglected to watch his back when he’d dispatched McCann.

Interesting that all these stupid decisions seem to come back around to Faraday.

At first, he tells himself he shouldn’t stay because it’s unlikely that Faraday will even survive.

Then Faraday wakes, grumbles, cries out, falls back asleep. Makes it through enough nights that the odds are leaning back in his favor. And Vasquez tells himself he shouldn’t stay because there’s no need. Faraday has the doctor and a bed to recover in and a grateful town to help him along. Everybody else has moved on. Vasquez ought to move on too.

But the days just go by, and he starts taking most of his meals at Faraday’s bedside, sleeps there most nights as well, dozing off often enough and waking so late that it hardly seems worth it to get up and go all the way to his room.

He dreams terrible dreams at Faraday’s bedside. Awful things that feel so real. He dreams that the Gatling gun spits through the walls around them. He dreams that he wakes with his hands bound and a bounty hunter standing over him. Dreams where Faraday wakes bleeding, stitches busted. Dark dreams that make him wake in a sweat, heart racing, angry with himself for still hanging around here.

Then he calms himself, reasons with himself. But there are some dreams he can’t talk himself down from, ones where Faraday wakes, irate, hollering at Vasquez for being there, hotly demanding some explanation for his not having left.

Vasquez can’t shake the fear that those dreams bring. He doesn’t have an answer.

After a little over a week, Vasquez wakes late in the night again, and the room is dark, lamp low. He doesn’t remember if he turned it down, or if someone came in and found them both asleep, and turned it down for them.

He shifts in his seat, tries to get comfortable, maybe drift off again.

“Hey,” he hears from beside him. He turns, can just barely make out Faraday’s face. “You’re still here.”

_ “Sí,” _ Vasquez answers, voice thick with sleep. He clears his throat. “Yes, still here.”

“How long?”

Vasquez shrugs, though he doubts Faraday can see it. “A week,” he tells him. “Little more.”

“Why?” Faraday asks, quiet and soft. “Why didn’t you leave yet?” It’s nothing like it sounded when he asked in Vasquez’s dreams.

It’s disarming. Vasquez has been trying to pin down a reason for the whole time Faraday has been asleep. The answer comes out of him now, automatically. Unbidden.

“I couldn’t,” he says, “with you here, still sleeping. Couldn’t leave you to wake up alone.”

“Thanks,” Faraday says after a moment.

Silence then, until Faraday takes a shallow breath and speaks again.

“Well, I’m awake,” he says. “So what about now? You going to move on?”

Vasquez looks down, hopes he doesn’t imagine the gentle hope he hears in the question.  _ “No, güero,” _ he says.  _ “No sin tí." _


	4. My Worst Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first line of this is straight-up jacked from the Lit song "My Own Worst Enemy." Which is still a banger.

“Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk?”

Vasquez thins his eyes. “Forget? What, just like that? Like it never happened?”

Faraday grits his teeth, wondering why Vasquez is being so deliberately difficult, why they haven’t moved past this nonsense and onto the enjoyable part of the night. “You’re takin’ it so personally. I barely even had my head about me. I didn’t mean anythin’ by it, wasn’t thinkin’—”

_“Claramente,”_ Vasquez cuts him off, tone dismissive. “Never are, are you?”

“The point  _is,”_  Faraday continues, ignoring the interruption, “you’re gettin’ yourself all worked up when it was just the whiskey talkin’ and it was hardly—”

“Don’t tell me ‘just the whiskey,’ like that makes any difference—”

“Doesn’t it?” Faraday demands, impatient. “I do all sorts of stupid shit when I’m drunk.”

“What, like kissing me?” Vasquez asks. “Fucking me? Was that just the whiskey?”

Faraday rolls his eyes. “Of course not, but that’s different—”

_“Pendejo,”_ Vasquez spits.  _“Niño tonto, no puede tener los—”_

“Quit that shit!” Faraday growls. “You’re cross at me for some bullshit I said when I was soaked, well at least you could fuckin’ understand me!” It doesn’t matter that Faraday doesn’t know what the words mean themselves. He knows when Vasquez is insulting him, knows when he’s calling him names.

Something in Vasquez’s eyes gives away some shred of remorse at that, but he recovers quickly. “You can’t have it both ways,  _güero,”_  he says. “This… This  _thing_ we’re—” Vasquez is struggling to find the right words, and Faraday feels for him in that moment. Eventually, he just sort of gestures between the two of them, and to the bed. “You don’t get to take what you take from me, and then act like it means nothing.”

Faraday looks at the floor. The words cut into him. Vasquez isn’t angry anymore, and though he’s trying to guard himself, it’s clear he’s hurt. He thinks about what he said. He really  _hadn’t_ meant anything by it. It was nothing but some truly misguided attempt at getting under Vasquez’s skin, trying to stoke some little fire between them when he’d felt ready to tuck in for the night.  _There I was, so worried when the whores all ran for the hills,_  he’d said.  _Didn’t expect to find such a warm, willin’ hole in this town._

He’d meant for it to work Vasquez up. After all, he’d spent most of the nights before last spewing filthy things into Vasquez’s ear while he buried himself inside him. He supposes, now, he can see where it might have reduced Vasquez to nothing more than a place to stick his cock. It’s been obvious for days now that “this thing” between them, however undefined, is more than that.

Faraday can’t actually remember the last time he said what he says to Vasquez now.

“I’m sorry.” Vasquez expression goes soft with surprise at that. “You’re right, it’s…” Faraday trails off, steps forward to close the distance between them. “Of course it means somethin’. And,” he goes on, reaches out and puts a hand on Vasquez’s shoulder, rubs a thumb at the crook of his neck, “I don’t mean to take from you.” He swallows, fights against the way his gut’s wrought over being so gentle. “You ain’t givin’ it,” he says, leans forward, rests his forehead against Vasquez’s. “You’re sharin’ it.”


	5. Letter to Myself

The first time Faraday notices it is the first night they spend in Rose Creek. He’s all too at ease after their day. The shootout was his first proper fight in what feels like ages. Followed by his first chance to clean up after riding and sleeping on the ground for so many days, and a visit to one of Gavin’s girls in the Elysium, and a warm supper with plenty to drink and even a few laughs to be had.

Now, a smoke out on the porch before tucking in. Nothing should be able to take him out of such a fine mood, certainly not something as completely unimportant as some folded-up paper that Vasquez pulls out of his vest with his box of matches.

It catches his attention, and he can’t figure why, so he puts it out of his mind, puts out his smoke and heads upstairs to his room.

Over the next few days, Faraday tries not to notice that every time Vasquez pulls out his matches, that piece of paper comes out with it. He tries not to wonder what it might be. He tries not to consider whether it’s maybe a copy of his warrant, before telling himself how foolish that would be, admitting a little stubbornly to himself that Vasquez is smart enough not to carry his own warrant around with him.

It’s not until the fourth night, when Vasquez gets comfortable enough to get good and drunk, that Faraday sees any more of it. When he gets out to the porch after supper, Vasquez is already out there, cigarillo hanging out of his mouth, leaning against a beam like he always does. He’s got the page unfolded, and Faraday wonders how he can possibly read any of it by the moonlight alone. Over his shoulder, Faraday can see that it’s a letter, which he probably ought to have figured.

It did cross his mind, but he’d tried to clear the notion away like smoke. Because to think about Vasquez keeping a letter means to think about who that letter might be from, who might mean enough to him. Family, maybe. But Faraday can’t help but think it’s more likely some girl, somebody beautiful he left in Mexico, somebody with access to his history and his heart that Faraday doesn’t have, and isn’t sure why the thought kicks up his ire so fiercely.

He clears his throat, alerting Vasquez to his presence, and he’s cursing himself for doing it, for giving Vasquez the chance to fold up the letter and slip it back into his vest. They stand out there for a while and smoke in silence, and Faraday could say something, could ask, because why not?

Because Vasquez might answer, and Faraday might be right. That’s why not.

Faraday keeps thinking about it as they ready the town. He thinks about how it would be easy enough to slip the letter out of Vasquez’s vest, whether he was wearing it or not. His hands are quick enough. He keeps reminding himself that it’s not even in English, not at all worth the trouble of taking it when he wouldn’t even be able to understand it. So why take it? To study the loops and curves of words somebody wrote to him, to have some window into what his trust might look like?

Faraday thinks about asking the next time Vasquez is drunk. He’s pretty drunk himself, really, and who knows how many more nights they’ve got left, how many chances he might have. But he decides against it, chooses instead to just laugh with him, try to keep making him laugh, he likes the sound of his laugh.

The next night is sober, and nobody’s laughing, and Bogue is coming in the morning, and Goodnight’s run off with his tail between his legs, and it seems to Faraday that there ain’t much left to lose.

So, when Vasquez pulls out his matches later and offers Faraday a light, Faraday takes it, and then he asks, “Who’s it from?” Vasquez doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t ask for clarity either. Nevertheless, Faraday adds, “The letter. You always got it.” Vasquez smiles a little, takes a long pull off his cigar. “You got a girl waitin’ for ya back in Mexico, huh?”

Vasquez laughs, smoke pouring out of his mouth. “No, _güero._ Nobody waiting for me.” Some weight lifts off of Faraday’s chest at the answer, worries he didn’t even want to admit he was holding onto suddenly evaporating. He gives Vasquez an expectant look, wondering if he’s going to answer the rest of his question. “You think it is your business?” he asks, and even if he’s smirking, the words are like a slap in the face, and Vasquez would notice his cheeks redden if it wasn’t so dark out here.

“Suppose it ain’t,” Faraday concedes.

Vasquez shakes his head. “I wrote it,” he says simply. Faraday doesn’t know what to say to that, and after some more quiet, Vasquez goes on. “Before I left, when I was young. When my hands were not so dirty. I thought it might help me to remember who I was.”

Faraday considers this. “Did it work?”

Vasquez shrugs. “I didn’t read it for a long time,” he tells him. “But then, this week, everything that we’re doing…” he lets that thought trail off, takes a drag, breathes out more smoke. “Starting to remember.”

Faraday readjusts his hat on his head, shifts his weight around a bit. He doesn’t feel prepared for what’s about to fall out of his mouth, is unaccustomed to the honesty between them. “The guy who wrote it,” he says, quick if sheepish, “oughta be proud.” Vasquez gives him a look like he’s just as disarmed at Faraday’s sincerity. “You oughta be proud.”

Vasquez doesn’t thank him, but something in his eyes looks grateful, even moved. “You didn’t have to stay,” he points out after a while. “But you’re still here.” Faraday nods, though neither of them is looking at the other anymore. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

They don’t say anything else as they finish up. They don’t say goodnight, either. They just turn, and they nod, and they head inside.


	6. Muscle

He wouldn’t have thought it by just looking at Vasquez.

Which he does—look at him—plenty. He spends more than enough time watching him, tall and lean, getting to know his gait and his little tics, the way he can’t keep still. The shootout proves he’s quick, even a little reckless, which is really the first thing that draws Faraday in.

A tired night around the supper table shows that he’s hungry, that he laugh. And over the next day’s appraising of the town and planning, it’s clear enough to Faraday that Vasquez is more than just able. He’s smart.

And Faraday might get just an inkling, might uncover a fraction of it when he and Vas each take a pickaxe and start in at the field for the trenches. He doesn’t pay careful enough attention, besides taking notice of the obvious, the way sweat beads at Vasquez’s brow and the way he sheds his vest and the way he mutters exhaustedly in Spanish.

It’s not clear until that night, after supper, after probably one drink and and one smoke too many, up in the privacy of Faraday’s room.

Vasquez is  _ strong.  _ Because Faraday’s big, he’s broad, and he’s not easily pushed around. And, sure, part of it is that he’s so unexpectedly  _ willing  _ to be pushed around, but even so, Vasquez wrestles him onto the bed, deft and quick, Faraday letting out an ugly grunt as Vas pins his arm behind his back.

“God damn,” Faraday huffs out, grinning, face pressed against the mattress.

Vasquez grinds his hips against Faraday’s ass, leans down to scrape his teeth along Faraday’s jaw. “Not used to that, are you?” he asks, breathing laughter against Faraday’s ear.

Faraday hums and tries to buck him off (a bluff more transparent than any he’s ever called), and they’re grappling again until Faraday manages to turn over onto his back, Vasquez still firm on top of him while he gathers Faraday’s wrists and holds them over his head against the mattress.

“Surprised I can handle you,  _ güero?” _ Vas asks, bites his lip, goes on. “Or surprised that you like it?”

Faraday puts his tongue in his cheek, wrinkles his nose, bucks his hips up against Vasquez’s. “Bit of both,” he tells him.


	7. Transaction

Faraday doesn’t just _lose._ He can’t remember the last time he lost, the last time somebody called his bluff, the last time a round of cards had his pockets so empty he couldn’t even ante up to get a chance at winning some of his money back.

Maybe he let his guard down.

A friendly game, that’s what they called it. Even though Faraday knows there’s no such thing, not really. Certainly not the way he plays. Faraday, Goodnight, a couple men from around town who opt in for a hand or two, and Vasquez.

Vasquez, who seems able to read Faraday, and who Faraday finds himself frustratingly unable to read. Vasquez, whose self-assured nature has gotten under Faraday’s skin since the moment they met. And Faraday ends up making stupid choices, calling when he ought to fold, folding when he swears Vasquez is bluffing. Finally, and most stupidly, going all in on a whim. And losing.

He’s hardly drunk enough to merit the loss, and his cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment as he tries to excuse himself without letting on how humiliated he is, or at least quickly enough to limit the amount of time he spends so thoroughly humiliated in front of everybody.

He’s sitting up in his bed, fighting the urge to light a smoke (because now the tobacco he’s got left is suddenly precious and in need of rationing) when there’s a knock at his door. He groans, gets up, shuffles over to open it.

Vasquez is leaning against the doorframe, shit-eating grin on his face.

“Ain’t got any more money,” Faraday mutters, “if you’re looking to play another hand.”

Vasquez laughs. “I know you don’t,” he says, nudging past Faraday and letting himself in. “Wouldn’t have left the table if you did.”

“Come on in,” Faraday says, incredulous, closing the door. “I’d think a wanted man would have more sense than to be invading somebody’s privacy like this.” Faraday thinks how he could well have been undressed, asleep.

Vasquez shrugs. “Took a gamble,” he says, and Faraday thins his eyes at the choice of words. “You throwing me out?”

“What is it you want, then?” Faraday asks, rolling his eyes.

Vasquez takes a look around the room, bites at his fingernail. “Thought you might like to win some of your money back.”

Faraday sneers. “I told ya, I don’t—”

“I know, no money,” Vasquez says impatiently. “You must have something to put up.”

“If I did, you think I’d be here?” Faraday bites out. “Rode into this town on a horse I don’t rightly own at the moment, and you won every penny in my pocket.” Vasquez smiles at that, too pleased at being reminded he took all Faraday’s money. “’Sides that? Deck of cards, couple more smokes.” He almost wishes he hadn’t mentioned those, and wishes he’d already smoked one of them, now that he thinks of Vasquez claiming them.

Vasquez says nothing, gaze just drifting around the room, and then to Faraday.

“Damn it, I told ya, didn’t I?” Faraday laments, wondering why Vasquez finds it necessary to rub salt in the wound. “That’s all I got. I mean, Jesus, what d’ya want, the clothes off my back?”

At this, Vasquez cocks an eyebrow. Faraday’s belly drops. “For a start,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is going to end up being a longer one-shot later with porn o'plenty, because, I mean... come _on._


	8. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SO. I think this may cross the line into explicit. Frankly I'm really bad at judging that, so I'm erring on the side of caution and hiking the rating up to E.

_ “Güero,  _ you’re trying my patience,” Vasquez huffs, eyes black, chest heaving.

Faraday only chuckles. “That’s kind of the idea,” he replies, dragging his fingertips up the inside of Vasquez’s thigh. Vasquez growls, flexing the muscles in his arms and pulling at the ties binding his wrists to the headboard. Faraday laughs some more. “And you thought you could handle this with your hands free.”

Vasquez thins his eyes, but Faraday sees him smirk in spite of himself. “You’re really enjoying this.”

Faraday settles between his legs. He kisses Vasquez on the inside of his knee. “I really,” he kisses a little higher up,  _ “really  _ am.”

_ “Cabrón,”  _ Vasquez mutters, and Faraday keeps moving up his thigh with too-soft little flicks of his tongue.

“Complain all you want, darlin’,” Faraday says, breathing hot into the crease of Vasquez’s groin. “I learned everythin’ I know from you.”

And that’s true. At the beginning, it was all to do with Faraday’s inexperience. He let Vasquez take the lead, slow and gentle. Then, it was out of necessity, with Faraday’s recovery long and arduous, so that even by the time he had the strength to mess around, Vasquez had to do the work, always taking his time, whether he was sucking Faraday’s cock or working him open or sinking down onto him and riding him steadily.

But now, he’s all healed up, and Vasquez had seen fit to mention the way Faraday’s always so willing to take what Vasquez gives him, and Faraday had thought it might be about time to see whether he couldn’t give as good as he got.

And it seems he can, judging by the look on Vasquez’s face, the way his cock’s hard and flushed and leaking on his own belly, the way he keeps trying to rock his hips up against Faraday every time he’s a breath away. Faraday can’t blame him, he’s had him tied up for the better part of an hour and he’s hardly done anything to him besides teasing fingers along his chest, dragging lips down his neck, whispering all manner of ideas into his ear.

“What is it that you want, Vas?” Faraday asks now, nosing up his belly, letting his lips drag torturously close to Vasquez’s cock, just close enough to bathe it in hot breath. “’Suppose I could suck you,” he says. “Get you all worked up, get you real close and then make you wait.” Vasquez groans, body shivering. “The way you do to me. Taste of your own medicine.”

Vasquez  _ whines.  _ “Never tie you up,” he points out hopelessly.

Faraday laughs. “Yeah, ‘cause I behave myself,” he replies. “You’re trouble. If I hadn’t tied you up, you’d probably be halfway up my ass by now.” Vasquez lets out a low, begrudging laugh.

_ “Probablemente,”  _ he agrees quietly.

“So,” Faraday starts again, “what to do with you…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a longer version of this eventually as its own fic because I wrote a **lot** more and still got nowhere near the end.


	9. I Remember When

He wakes so many times that Vasquez begins to lose count. He just knows that it happens, at least, daily, that Faraday stirs, moans, they give him more laudanum, and usually he’s out again in mere minutes, sometimes clutching Vasquez’s hand, though never seeming overly aware of his actual presence.

It’s fear like Vasquez hasn’t known since he was a child. He’s had this bounty on him, been on the run so long that death was likely to claim him any day. That made it simple enough to join Sam, to stay, to fight. And then,  _ Faraday  _ happened. Not just once, like he thought it might have been at first, but again and again. At the beginning it was hot and angry, and then hot and sweet, and before either of them knew it, things between them were slow, were gentle, were composed of such inarguable surrender to each other.

Even so, the fear crept up on him, blindsided him when he saw Faraday take McCann’s bullet, when he foolishly wasted a handful of bullets in his rage to put McCann down when he could just as easily have put one bullet right between his eyes. The fear flooded him, then, the fear that Faraday would bleed out, the fear that he’d blown himself to hell.

Every time Faraday wakes up, Vasquez feels the fear trying to ebb, and he scolds himself, because he just has this horrible feeling that the moment he feels safe will be the moment Faraday slips away.

It’s the middle of the night when he wakes,  _ really _ wakes. Vasquez is half-asleep in a wicker chair when he hears a soft voice muttering, “God damn it.”

_ “Güero,”  _ he croaks. He seems to understand all at once that this time is different. Faraday’s not moaning, not hollering, not twisted up with pain. “You’re—”

“‘The fuck happened?” Faraday asks, trying to move too quickly, so Vasquez rushes to his side, kneels on the ground beside his bed.

“You got shot,” Vasquez says, wondering why he hadn’t prepared for something like this, why he doesn’t have the right words ready. “And you almost blew yourself up.”

“Bogue, when’s he—”

“Bogue is dead,” Vasquez tells him, lifts his hand and strokes Faraday’s hair. His skin is flushed and sweaty. “Him and his men. They’re all dead,  _ güero.”  _

The lamp’s low, but he can still see Faraday well enough, can make out his confused face. “Sam,” he mutters, wincing a little as he tries to move again, “ours?”

“Alive,” Vasquez tells him. “You took the worst of it.” He swallows, and Faraday’s breathing seems to start evening out, just a little. “I was worried,” he says softly, “you’ve been asleep almost a week. I was afraid…” he doesn’t finish the thought, and Faraday’s looking no less confused, and Vasquez can’t help himself as he leans in. He’s pressed his lips to Faraday’s hair, his brow, his jaw over the past week, late at night, when he’s had enough privacy. To see him now, awake and responsive, has his heart weak and wanting and grateful.

Their lips touch before Faraday puts his hands up, wincing and hissing at the pain the sudden motion brings. “What’re you—Jesus,” he groans, lets his hands fall again, and Vasquez pulls away.

“I,” Vasquez starts, heart breaking at the recoil. “Careful, you’re all sewn together.”

“What’re you  _ doing?”  _ Faraday demands, not exactly angry, just frustrated, still confused.

Vasquez places gentle hands on him, his jaw, his hair, his neck, the places that aren’t burnt and full of holes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me, god damn it,” Faraday grits out, flustered, “you tried to  _ kiss  _ me.”

Vasquez’s heart sinks. Faraday didn’t just forget the battle.

He forgot  _ everything. _

“What do you remember,  _ güero?”  _ he asks tentatively, a whole new kind of fear welling up inside him.

“Ridin’ into town,” Faraday says, looking like he’s trying so hard to come up with even that much. “A shootout, supper…” he looks so frustrated at finding nothing else. “How long ago was that?”

“Two weeks,” Vasquez says, pulling his hands off of Faraday and using them to catch his own head. “You don’t remember,” he says to himself. “You don’t remember any of it.”

“What  _ happened?”  _ Faraday asks him, and Vasquez feels a weak grip around his wrist. “What did we do?” he goes on, softly. “You an’ me, I mean.”

_ “Güero,  _ we,” Vasquez starts, uncertain, how does he say it plainly when neither of them were able to parse through it for days?

“You’ve kissed me before,” Faraday says, not like he remembers, but like he’s realizing it now, “haven’t you?”

“More times than we could count,” Vasquez answers, voice practically a whisper.

Faraday nods, not like he remembers, but like somehow, he isn’t surprised. They’re both quiet for a long moment, and then Faraday whispers, “Did more, though, didn’t we.” It’s not a question, not really. “Did more than that.”

Vasquez nods.  _ “Sí, güero,”  _ he agrees. “Much more.” Faraday looks remorseful, and Vasquez can’t be sure why. Is it knowing that it happened? Or is it knowing that he missed it? Faraday’s thumb strokes his wrist, slow, tentative.

They sit like that for a long while, so long that Faraday lets his hand fall back to his chest. So long that Vasquez’s knees ache on the wooden floor and he shifts to sit down.

“You don’t remember,” Vasquez says again, eventually.

“No,” Faraday tells him. “I don’t.”

“How did you know, then?” Vasquez wonders aloud. “That there was more?”

Faraday takes a long, labored breath. “At supper,” he starts, “you laughed. Hadn’t seen you laugh before.” He reaches out again, slowly, looking at Vasquez expectantly. Vasquez takes his hand. “I liked it. Thought I’d like to kiss you, an’ that made me angry.” Vasquez’s mouth quirks at that.

“Sounds about right,” he says.

“So, if we kissed,” Faraday goes on, “well, knew it couldn’t’ve started that way. Must’ve been somethin’ angrier first.” Faraday sighs, looks to him. “That right?”

Vasquez feels like the weight is sliding off of his shoulders. “That’s right.”

“Would you kiss me now, then?” Faraday asks a few moments later, and the fear drains out of Vasquez again as he leans in, as Faraday’s lips mold pliant to his own for a long, divine moment.

He’s not sure what to say after that, so he just keeps close, holds Faraday’s hand, waits.

“Almost blew myself up, huh?” Faraday asks after a while, and Vasquez lets out a surprised little laugh. “Tell me about that, would you?”

So Vasquez does.


	10. Aftermath

It’s a good fight. And more than that, it’s a good time. Exciting to get the drop on them, trickling into town so Bogue’s men realize gradually that they’re surrounded. Faraday hasn’t had so much fun in a shootout in years.

Then Mrs. Cullen rounds up the townsfolk and Sam gives them all the rundown and Faraday’s body’s still riding the high of so much gunfire and adrenaline.

Supper helps to settle him, and after that a long smoke on the porch. The kind of thing you need after a fight.

But he finds that his fingers are still itching at his sides, that fire in him burning, urging him toward a reckless end to his night.

There’s a hotel full of girls who’d be warm and willing for the right price, but Faraday doesn’t find himself heading that way.

He thinks, a little drunkenly, that a reckless end to his night more likely begins upstairs in the boarding house where they’ve been given rooms. As he’s knocking on the door, he’s acutely aware that he could well find another fight behind it, instead of what he’s after.

The door creaks open, and Vasquez raises an eyebrow, looks Faraday up and down.

Faraday licks his lips, heart hammering.

Vasquez grins.


	11. Grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the previous chapter, "Aftermath"

_ “Qué sorpresa,”  _ Vasquez drawls, and Faraday rolls his eyes.

“Can I come in or what?” he asks, already taking the step forward.

Vasquez moves aside and lets him in, closing the door behind them.  _ “No pensé que sería tan fácil,” _ he says through a wolfish grin as he saunters over to Faraday.

Faraday sneers, though he’s no less excited. No less interested. “You gonna keep makin’ me guess what the fuck you’re sayin’?” he asks, taking his hat off and throwing it on the table.

Vasquez laughs. “I said,” he begins, innocently enough, and then he puts his hands on Faraday’s hips and backs him up against the wall, “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

He rocks his hips forward and Faraday’s body betrays him, hands rushing up to clutch at Vasquez’s arms, head tilting back to expose his neck, some greedy little sound rushing out of him.

“It’s alright,  _ güero,”  _ Vasquez goes on, teeth against Faraday’s throat, hips rutting forward against Faraday’s groin. “I thought it would take much longer to get you here,” he says, and Faraday pushes his hands down between them to start fumbling with his gun belt. So Vasquez backs away to let him get rid of it.

“That so?” Faraday mutters, unbuckling the belt and stepping to place it on the table beside his hat. He’s thrilled that Vasquez is so eager to mess around, and doubly so that Vasquez is being so pushy about it.

Vasquez bites his bottom lip, nods, takes Faraday by the hips again, hums out,  _ “Mm-hm.” _ Then he turns Faraday around and puts his chest against the wall. He rolls his hips forward against Faraday’s ass, and purrs into his ear, “And now I can take my time.”


	12. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was, I think, the most challenging for me in terms of coming up with an idea. I'm rather happy with how this came out, and if you find yourself reading and thinking _how in the world is this for the **boundaries** prompt?_ Well, I'm going to get into that in the end notes because it's, IMO, equal parts ridiculous and adorable.

It sort of seemed to Faraday that, whatever it is they found between the two of them over the past week, it didn’t seem very viable outside of this town, outside of these circumstances. Outside of the strange and particular immunity that riding under a peace officer brings. Outside of this moment that seems peculiarly separate from time in itself.

It seemed to Faraday, over and over again, whenever he thought about it, that however unwilling he felt to actually give this thing up, there wasn’t room on the road ahead of them (if there  _ was  _ a road ahead of them) where he could imagine it fitting, just like there there was no room in the lifetime behind him, the lifetime leading up to all this, where it could have fit.

These are thoughts that, ultimately, turn into words, woven into hours-long,  _ days- _ long conversations that they have during his recovery.

After all, there’s not much else to do. Faraday can only impress Vasquez with card tricks so many times, and he’s too sore and weak to take to any of his usual tactics for avoiding serious conversation with Vasquez.

When he lets it spill, all that uncertainty, the way he couldn’t imagine how they might find a way to stick together in the future, Vasquez doesn’t really react. They’re playing cards, just the two of them, and Vasquez stares intently at his hand, like there’s anything at all at stake.

“That why you tried to blow yourself up?” he asks, after a minute, discarding.

Faraday wrinkles his nose. “Wasn’t tryin’ to blow myself up,” he says, and he shouldn’t have to keep fucking saying it, but he will. “Was tryin’ to blow the god damn—”

“I know,” Vasquez says, nodding, still not looking up. “I know.” It’s almost apologetic. As apologetic as Vasquez gets. Faraday has not historically been the more likely to be sorry when measured up against any other person. It’s odd that it’s worked out this way with Vasquez.

“I don’t know when I’m gonna be able to leave,” Faraday says after a while. “I’m glad you stayed here, y’know. And I,” Faraday groans, swallows, because he’s also not the kind of person, historically, to soften up, to speak free or honest when it’s the more difficult thing to do. “I, y’know, I don’t want you to go. Not ‘til I can go with you.”

Vasquez’s mouth quirks into a little smirk. It’s smug, sure, but it’s also just  _ pleased.  _ “I know,  _ güero.” _ Faraday picks up a card and frowns at it. Vasquez laughs a little. “Take your time healing up. You'll probably be walking by the time you are any good at Conquian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After racking my brain for a thousand years, I remembered that in the song "The Best of Friends" from _The Fox and the Hound,_ there's this lyric:
> 
> _Neither one of you sees your natural boundaries._
> 
> Ignoring how suddenly heart-achingly perfect Vas and Faraday are as the fox and the hound, respectively, I also thought of the following verse, which is the real inspiration behind this chapter:
> 
> _When this moment has passed, will that friendship last?  
>  Who can say if there's a way?  
> Oh, I hope it never ends._
> 
> Anyway, please sob with me.


	13. Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's just a bit of blood/violence in this, but nothing too graphic. Neither of our boys gets hurt, but a fella does get shot to death.

_ “Güero?” _ Vasquez calls tentatively, pulse racing, knowing well already that it isn’t Faraday. Whoever just opened the door of the little cabin they’ve been holed up in for the past week is trying not to be heard. Faraday’s never done anything quietly for the whole time that Vasquez has known him.

Vasquez, on the other hand, can be silent when he needs to be, and he gets up from the bed, where he’s been sitting and reading, and makes for his gun on the other side of the room.

The problem with quiet is that it’s  _ slow.  _ It’s too slow, this time, because he’s a yard short of the table where his gun belt is lying when the room’s door bursts open and there’s a Colt trained on him.

“Vasquez,” the man holding it says. He’s big, and missing some teeth, and the fact that he hasn’t shot yet lets Vasquez know he’s stupid. Maybe stupid enough to be paid off, or at least distracted.

Vasquez raises his hands.

“Been after you a while,” the man says, grinning. “After that bounty o’ yours a while.”

Vasquez nods. “Bounty pays well,” he agrees. “I can pay better.” Which is true. He made enough in Rose Creek to pay out his own bounty and then some, even without Faraday’s share. Which he’d happily dip into if he had to, but frankly, if this man gives him the chance to move for his money, it’s the chance Vasquez will take to put a bullet in him.

“Don’t get funny,” the man says. “Wanted man hidin’ out ain’t got shit.” He cocks his gun.

“Listen,” Vasquez says, but they both start as the cabin’s front door slams open.

The man turns toward the sound, and Vasquez reaches for his gun, but he doesn’t reach it before the guy turns around, hollering, “Don’t fuckin’ move!”

Vasquez freezes.

There are two shots, and Vasquez backs against the wall as the man’s knees buckle and he falls forward into the bedroom.

“I told you,” Faraday growls, stepping over the big, dead man on the floor and putting a hand against Vasquez’s chest. “You’re not hidden enough out here. I _ told  _ you.”

Vasquez scoffs. “I had it under control,” he says, heart still hammering in his chest.

Faraday shakes his head. He’s angry. And Vasquez knows he’s terrified too. He grabs Vasquez by the front of his shirt and leans in close, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m not losin’ you like that. We’re leavin’ tonight,” he tells him, peremptory.

Vasquez nods, not needing to be convinced, because even if Faraday wasn’t right, there’s a man bleeding out on the floor now, and suddenly the place hardly feels like home.

“You keep your fuckin’ gun on you when I’m not here,” Faraday says, and he wants to sound angry, but he’s pleading. It’s in his voice. His eyes.

Vasquez nods again, and Faraday lets go of his shirt, and he holsters his gun, and he takes Vasquez’s face in both his hands. “Thank you,” Vasquez mutters, humiliated, grateful, terrified.

Faraday nods and kisses him, quick and rough and desperate. “Let’s pack up,” he says, then, and they go about collecting their things so they can put the cabin and the dead man behind them.


	14. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Did you know ya girl has a thing for church nookie? And godless Faraday? She do. The following is a bit smutty and also BRIEF because I wrote it on mobile at like 11:50 PM.

“You’re not too bad at this.”

Faraday lets Vasquez’s cock fall out of his mouth and grins up at him. “Y'know, another way of saying that is that I’m good at this.”

Vasquez groans. “Better if you don’t stop to talk,” he says, grabbing him by the hair.

Faraday hisses, props Vasquez’s cock up and swallows it down again, sucking a little harder this time and humming around him for good measure.

Vasquez looks down and admires the sight of him, kneeling on the sooty floor of Rose Creek’s ruined church.

He wonders whether he’ll feel guilty after they’re done, was too worked up to second-guess letting Faraday suck him off right here.

Not much of a church, really. Burnt up, hollowed out, covered in ash.

Faraday takes him into his throat and he has to throw his head back, has to stifle a moan.

He’ll worry about it later.


	15. Fight Me

Honestly, if Faraday hadn’t had such a blessedly opportune chance to kill so many men today, he may well have but a bullet in Vasquez by now. Or if he’d had just one more drink.

He’s not drunk enough to shoot Vasquez. But he is, it turns out, drunk enough to start trouble.

He loiters a long time on the porch once he’s finished eating, smoking more than he can really afford to smoke on only their first night in town. And while he smokes, while he waits, he thinks of the fight, thinks of standing back to back in the street with Vasquez, like they were drawn together. Thinks of Vasquez’s infuriating grin and his dark eyes and the way it felt when their bodies were together the way they were.

Faraday’s on his third smoke when Vasquez finally makes his way out. Vasquez only gives him a nod, and a wary one at that, before he heads out into the road and toward the boarding house.

Faraday follows him. He doesn’t make a show of it, but he’s not trying to go unnoticed either. And though Vasquez doesn’t stop, or look over his shoulder, or say a word, Faraday can feel that he knows. He  _ knows _ he’s being followed. So Faraday quickens his pace until he can grab Vasquez by the shoulder, pulling until he spins around.

Vasquez growls, and Faraday shoves him. He shoves him in the direction of the boarding house, or maybe more accurately toward the alley between it and the building beside it.

_ “Cabrón,”  _ Vasquez bites, his only warning.

Faraday pushes him again, and yes, this time, it’s definitely in the direction of the alley.

Vasquez sneers and takes a swing at him, and Faraday thinks he could dodge it, he  _ could,  _ except for that he doesn’t really want to. He wants something to ignite, and that punch is like a lit match. It hits him squarely on the jaw. It  _ hurts.  _ Faraday likes it.

He takes his own swing back, and Vasquez just barely steps away from it, but Faraday follows up with a jab to Vasquez’s ribs with his other hand, keeps walking forward, and they’re suddenly so close to the alley that all Faraday would need to do is give him one more good  _ push. _

He doesn’t need to. Vasquez grabs him by his collar and drags him between the buildings, puts him against the wall and punches him in the mouth. It’s a hard hit, real hard, and Faraday doesn’t actually  _ feel  _ his lip split, but then he’s bleeding, and Vasquez has him up against the wall, a look on his face like he’s not entirely sure what’s going to happen next.

Faraday tries to push him back, but Vasquez slots his knee between Faraday’s thighs and keeps him right where he is.

“Enough,  _ güero,”  _ Vasquez says, and Faraday isn’t certain whether or not it’s a question.

All the same, he challenges, he offers an answer, presses his bloody lips to Vasquez’s.

Vasquez makes a little yelp of surprise, and Faraday grabs at his shoulders, but Vasquez catches him by the wrists and pins them to the wall beside Faraday’s head.

Faraday grins against Vasquez’s mouth in spite of himself, tries to open his mouth to make some smartass remark, but Vasquez just slips his tongue inside.

Well, alright. They don’t need to talk.


End file.
